


Doing a Good Job: Janeway after Quarra

by Curator



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Episode: s07e16-17 Workforce, F/M, Referenced: Episode: s05e01 Night, all the feels, referenced: Janeway’s depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-17 18:37:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18104135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curator/pseuds/Curator
Summary: What happened between Kathryn Janeway’s tearful hug with Jaffen in her quarters and her cautious re-entry onto the bridge? To what level were her memories effectively restored? This is a canon-consistent Workforce add-in with all the feels.The door opens and Chakotay says something about needing to break orbit, about everyone having recovered their memories so it’s time to go.“You need to know the truth,” Jaffen says. “She isn’t as far along as she’s led you to believe.”





	Doing a Good Job: Janeway after Quarra

**Author's Note:**

> So many thank yous to Manalyzer and Caladenia for betas!

Jaffen says he can see why I would rather live here.

He can?

I’m not sure, but I was told the proper things to say when they finally agreed to let him visit me. So, I tell him I would offer him a position. Then I add, “But as the captain, it wouldn't really be appropriate for me to —”

I choke. The words are too close to what we had. What we did. The rules we broke when I didn’t have … all this responsibility.

“Fraternize with a member of your crew?” he finishes.

He tells me he got a promotion and I congratulate him. I know how important work is to him. Is to me, too. He tries to offer me souvenirs of our time together, but I don’t want objects.

I want him.

When I leap into his arms, he holds me but I hold him tighter. I smell his after-shave and feel his strong arms around my waist.

Jaffen pulls away and asks if I’m OK. I nod and wipe the tear sliding down my cheek.

He touches my hair, smoother than what he’s used to; my uniform, more tailored than the clothing I chose on Quarra; and my face, which I at least think is the same. His fingers move across the curve of my cheek and I kiss them when they rest against my lips. He probably wonders if he truly knows me, if the changes to my exterior signify deeper changes to my interior.

I wonder that, too.

He embraces me again and I think about that first night when he asked if he was making me uncomfortable. I had assured him he wasn’t. The truth is, he was — at first. But, he was charming and interesting and I found myself enjoying his company. He won me over.

But, since then, “me” has become a question, not a statement.

“What do you want, Kathryn?” His breath is a warm tickle in my ear. “Do you want to fraternize or do you want me to leave you alone? I’m confused. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Our short history repeats itself as I whisper, “You’re not.”

But who am I?

The treatments I’ve had to restore my memory give me fragmented data, not coherent experience. I glimpse flashes of childhood: stomping out of a tent, a tree split by lightning, hitting a ball with some sort of racquet, reading science textbooks. But the web that connects the silken threads of memories isn’t yet complete and I struggle to understand, out of context, how an angry walk in a thunderstorm is relevant to the person they tell me I am — the captain of this starship. When I asked him about it after I was here for a few hours, the ship’s doctor told me it would come, that impatience is typical for me. I trust him, so I wait.

The one who says we’re friends, the one who came to me on Quarra, Chakotay, he’s visited my apartment — no, “quarters” is what it’s called — to check on me. He told me stories. At first I struggled to understand. I said things like, “Who are the Borg?” and “What is a Q?” When I stopped querying him, Chakotay thought my memories were returning. He seemed so pleased to have helped me that I chose not to correct him. But the truth was I stopped asking questions because I started fearing the answers. Working on this ship: It sounds dangerous. It sounds intimidating. It sounds lonely.

I miss my job at the plant.

During an early visit, Chakotay showed me a photograph. In the picture, my hair was pinned up and I wore a uniform identical to the one I have on now. There was a brown creature next to me. On the other side of the creature was a man who looked so much like my Jaffen that the intimate parts of my body tingled to see him. Chakotay said the man was named Mark and I had been engaged to him back on Earth. “I guess I have a type,” I joked, but Chakotay didn’t laugh. I was still curious then, so I asked what happened to Mark. I’d hoped he had somehow become Jaffen the same way Chakotay disguised himself before the dermal regenerator revealed his true face. But, no, Mark had believed I was dead, so he married someone else. After Chakotay told me that, I asked him to leave, and he did.

I think of all this as Jaffen holds me. I was loved before Quarra, I tell myself. I was loved on Quarra. Will I be loved again?

The words they told me were correct to say, the proper, captainly prose — I can’t do it.

“Stay with me,” I plead. My chest is tight and my voice breaks.

“For how long?” Jaffen asks.

“I don’t know.”

“How do you want me to help you?”

I know where the bedroom area of these “quarters” is and I take him there. The bed is big and soft. Jaffen knows how I think. I breathe a happy sigh as we fold into each other. He takes his time, does all the right things, touches me in all the right ways.

But I can’t —

I can’t —

I throw a pillow across the room and cry out in frustration. I knew my mind wasn’t working properly, but my body, too?

Jaffen says he understands and he holds me. When I tell him I don’t understand so he couldn’t possibly, he kisses my forehead and replies in his tender way, “I understand you’re scared. So, just understand I love you, all right?”

Through a haze of exhaustion, I tell him everything. He strokes my hair and says it will be OK. Then he pulls a blanket over us and spoons me. This ship is a cold place, and Jaffen’s warmth helps. I fall asleep in his cocoon.

My dream is a nightmare. Again. The images change, but they have assaulted me every night I’ve tried to sleep here. Tonight, it’s a space-wave of some sort and explosions. People I knew at the plant applauding as I curtsy wearing a tutu. Dead people wearing shoulder-color variations of the ship’s uniform. An old man in coveralls giving me red flowers near what looks like some sort of university.

A chime awakens me and I pull the blanket over my head.

”Get the door, Jaffen,” I mumble. I’m used to sharing living space that used to be his, not living space that’s supposed to be mine. He pulls on boxers and a shirt and asks the person on the other side of the door for instructions to open it. From under my blanket, I hear Chakotay’s voice. I remember where I am and peek out.

The door opens and Chakotay says something about needing to break orbit, about everyone having recovered their memories so it’s time to go.

“You need to know the truth,” Jaffen says. “She isn’t as far along as she’s led you to believe.”

A lick of anger flames in my belly. I don’t know how to close the door to the bedroom, so I gather the blanket to me and I run out.

“Jaffen!” I glare at him and cross my arms.

Chakotay is surprisingly unfazed at seeing me wearing nothing but a blanket. “Kathryn,” he says, “who are the Borg?”

“Space zombies with cybernetic implants. They have a queen and they assimilate other species.”

“What is a Q?”

“An omnipotent being and a troublemaker.”

Chakotay turns to Jaffen triumphantly, but Jaffen challenges him. “Ask her something you didn’t tell her in the last few days.”

My throat goes dry.

Chakotay looks at me again. “How would you re-align the deflector dish if Voyager was being bombarded by negatively charged subspace particles?”

I don’t know.

“What’s the name for the area of space the Maquis fought to defend?”

I don’t know.

”Who is Tuvok?”

I know!

“He worked with me at the plant. He’s the one who said there was something wrong with our memories.”

As I share this information, every muscle of Chakotay’s face seems to go slack. He says, “I’ll get the doctor,” and leaves.

I shout at Jaffen. I tell him he overstepped, that he shouldn’t have repeated what I told him, that a chief medical officer could relieve me of command if he felt I was unfit for duty.

Whoa. What was that last one?

I’m shaking and Jaffen steps into my blanket and puts his arms around me. Even though I’m furious with him, his touch is calming.

“The workers on this ship deserve the best possible supervisor,” he says gently. “Since you’re the captain, that means the crew will look to you, and you know as well as I do that you want to do a good job.”

I do want to do a good job.

Jaffen and I dress in silence. The uniform is comfortable, I’ll give it that. 

When the doctor arrives, he uses his scanning device on me. I stand very still.

“I recommend you wait elsewhere,” he says over his shoulder to Jaffen. “You‘ll want to turn your full attention to some reading material — this may take time.”

Jaffen pulls a book from the window ledge and retreats to the bedroom. The doctor closes the door and I sit on the sofa.

“Your memories are restored, as are the connections between them,” the doctor says in his usual, reassuring tone. “However,” he continues, “as I look at a deeper analysis, I see the new connections are being blocked, which means you’re not able to properly access your own memories. Will you tell me, honestly, what it’s like when you try to remember something?”

I tell him I haven’t tried to remember anything, and the doctor places on my lap the photo of me with not-Jaffen and the brown creature.

“What’s the animal’s name?” he asks.

I focus on the picture, my hands wrapped around the cool frame.

I stare at the creature.

I feel a memory-echo of silky fur between my fingers, as if I used to rub my hand on this creature’s head.

But what is the creature’s name?

Its name?

Its …?

“I don’t know,” I say.

The doctor takes the photo away.

I explain about the incomplete web: how my memories are there, but ephemeral and without context. How I can't figure out how to access anything specific.

The doctor asks why I didn’t tell him or Commander Chakotay that the memory restoration procedures continued to be unsuccessful. Before I can say anything, though, he starts to tell me about myself: how strong I am, how I lead an entire crew, how I never give up.

Suddenly, the doctor stops talking. Having observed his behavior these last few days, I know this is rare.

“Do you,” he says carefully, “not want to be yourself again?”

I flush with embarrassment and cover my face with my hands. The doctor waits for me to collect myself. After a few deep breaths, I force my palms down to my knees and tell him the truth.

“I wanted to do a good job ... and I thought I could do it, even if the treatments weren’t working as quickly as they were supposed to,” I explain. “But then I ... I got overwhelmed and didn’t want to cause trouble for my employer.”

The doctor tells me his function is to heal me, no matter what, and that I’m supposed to inform him if something is wrong. He tells me it’s not my fault the procedures to restore my memories didn’t work properly and he now sees a way he can repair that part of the process.

“You gave permission for me to treat you before,” he says, touching my hand with his oddly cold one. “Ethically, I must ask you: does that permission still stand?”

I look around these quarters, at so many objects I don’t recognize.

I think of Jaffen, possibly missing work as he reads in the bedroom area while I consult with this doctor.

I consider the things Chakotay and the doctor have told me about this ship, about my place here. My job sounds extremely challenging. But, I suddenly realize, that means I must have worked hard to get it. Like this empathetic doctor, I also must have training to define my function here and, clearly, to excel at it.

I’ve been slouching, but I straighten my spine and look the doctor in the eyes.

“I give permission,” I say with a quick nod. “But I want to know why the treatment wasn’t fully effective before and I want to know why you think it will be now.”

The doctor tells me he can share that information with me once I have my memories. I argue and he concedes, saying he supposes he can break doctor-patient confidentiality with me about me.

The doctor says I take medication for something called depression and that he and I agreed to increase my dosage about two and a half years ago. He says he administers a long-lasting drug to me every six months and it affects the neurotransmitters in my mind.

“I have brain damage?” I am terrified.

“No,” the doctor says. “You have a chemical imbalance that we correct, just as we would heal a broken arm or mend injured skin.”

I barely have time to be comforted by this when the doctor adds that my neurotransmitters would be uniquely affected not only by memory restoration, but also by memory manipulation. He struts and gesticulates as he goes into detail about his brilliance in figuring this out, but he doesn’t tell me what it means.

“What’s your point, doctor?” I snap. He seems delighted by my outburst, even though I instantly apologize.

”My point,” he says, “is you likely lost more of your memories than the others and had less of yourself remain. But, you’ll get it all back. I promise.”

Does this mean the real me won’t love Jaffen? 

Before I can ask, the doctor says it will take him a moment in sickbay to formulate a special hypospray for my treatment. The hyposprays don’t bother me. They remind me of inoculations at the plant.

When the doctor leaves, I call for Jaffen. He’s figured out how to open the bedroom door — impressive.

“You have interesting taste in books,” he says, placing the one called _Dante’s Inferno_ back on the ledge. I tell him what the doctor said and Jaffen puts his arm around my shoulders.

”Are you sure you want to do what this employer is asking of you?” he says.

“I am,” I reply, my voice sounding more sure than I feel.

Jaffen holds me closer and says he’s proud of me. I breathe deeply snuggle against him.

When the doctor comes back, I ask if Jaffen can stay for the treatment. The doctor says he doesn’t see why not and presses the hypospray to my neck.

For a few seconds, nothing happens. Then, there are thousands of explosions in my brain as everything connects at once. I gasp and close my eyes tightly against the onslaught.

It’s all there.

I understand the linear path from my childhood to my captaincy. I can locate any memory and understand it fully. My head pounds. My heartbeat quickens.

I recognize people from various dreams I’ve had since the treatments began — my mother, my father, my sister, members of my crew. Tuvok and Chakotay, my closest friends. This knowledge exhausts me, but gives me energy, too. My forehead begins to throb.

I know why my ship is in the Delta Quadrant. A weight settles in my chest, constricting my lungs. My breaths become shallow; I’m not getting as much air.

“Thank you, Doctor.” My voice is stiff. Low. Somewhere between sincere and dismissive.

“Captain?” he asks. I still haven’t opened my eyes.

“The dog’s name is Mollie. She’s an Irish Setter.”

I hear the EMH open a medical tricorder and scan me. He issues a self-satisfied, “Ah!” and I hear him pack up his medkit supplies. “You won’t feel completely like yourself for a few days yet, but the substantial work is done. Please see me in sickbay for a full scan in 24 hours.”

“I’ll remember.”

I hear the door as he leaves.

Jaffen’s arm is still around my shoulders. Shit. How many members of the crew know he’s been here? How many of them had similar … entanglements … on Quarra? Who can counsel them? Maybe Neelix can arrange some sort of group discussion. No chance in hell I’ll attend, but it might be helpful for any others.

I force my eyes open and glance at Jaffen. Damn, I do like what I see. But, there’s no way. I can’t think about that until the Alpha Quadrant. Jaffen blinks, like a man who thought he bought a painting from a master but got stuck with an imitation instead.

“I’ll get my things and go,” he says slowly. As he stands, his arm lifts off me and falls to his side.

My headache intensifies and my fingers go to my temples. I need coffee.

I comm Tuvok and tell him to clear the corridors between my quarters and transporter room two and to instruct the transporter operator to report to the mess hall for a break.

“A break, Captain?”

“Yes, a break,” I say, annoyed. “A 20-minute rest from work and then he can return to duty.”

“Understood.”

The EMH was right — I’m not fully back. I should have come up with something better than a break. A level-four diagnostic in transporter room one. That would have been more plausible. Shit. Maybe I will check in with the Doctor, see if he can further speed up this process now that he understands the neurochemistry underlying the delay.

Oh, I have so much to do. I need to know if the tetryon radiation is cleared from all systems, how many of _Voyager’s_ escape pods were recovered, whether I should ask Jaffen if he’ll kiss me one last time.

Whoa. What was that last one?

He’s taking too long. I move toward the door of my quarters to give him the hint to hurry. In my peripheral vision, I see him pick up the pillow that was on the floor and place it on the freshly made bed. His duffel bag is over his shoulder.

Sweet mother of Zefram Cochrane, I need to get him out of here.

Jaffen meets me at the door. I thank him for making the bed and tell him he didn’t have to do that.

“What, um,” he says, “what do you remember?”

I toggle the sensor to open the door as I reply, “Everything.”

We walk to the transporter room. Despite now-gouging pain across my forehead, I move as quickly as I can so, even with his longer legs, Jaffen has to rush to keep up.

“Did you love me?” he asks in the corridor.

“Yes.” Bulkheads look good. Hopefully damage is repaired on all decks.

“Did I know the real you?” he asks as we wait for the turbolift.

“Essentially.” Computer responsiveness to the lift request seems normal. That’s a good sign.

“Do you still love me?” he asks in the lift.

“That’s complicated.” Lift speed seems slow, but that may be my perception. I’ll have B’Elanna run a speed test.

Jaffen steps in front of me and says, “I deserve a better answer than that.”

Our eyes meet.

“Computer, halt turbolift.” My voice is breathy.

We rock slightly as the lift jolts to a stop. 

I allow myself to look at Jaffen’s face more purposefully than I did in my quarters. I catalog his thoughtful eyes, his strong cheekbones, his soft mouth — all just as I remembered. 

I involuntary bite my bottom lip.

The small ridges at his temples and chin. I’ve touched them, stroked them. They’re soft and he likes it when I’m gentle with him there.

His nose. I’ve bumped it with my own when kisses came fast and deep.

His hair. It’s messy from spending the night in my quarters, but he has a brush at home and he would get adorably embarrassed when I teased him about spending more time on his hair than I do on mine. God, that hair felt good between my fingers ... on my chest ... between my thighs....

His eyelashes. Once, one fell onto his cheek and I taught him to blow it off my fingertip and make a wish.

My legs feel weak and loose.

On Quarra, I had hoped I would see Jaffen’s face every day for the rest of my life.  _Things are so easy when we’re together_ , he had said in Umali’s bar. He was right. He treated me with the just-right proportions of love, respect, challenge, and acceptance. He’s smart, sensitive, and kind. Damn good in the sack, too.

But we’re not on Quarra anymore.

Jaffen’s head is cocked, waiting for me to answer his question.

My spine straightens and I set my jaw.

“You’re right, Jaffen,” I say. “You do deserve a better answer. Yes, I still love you. But I have a crew to get home. If my ship were in Federation space, there would be options. Starfleet has short-term missions, vessels built to accommodate families, non-ship-based assignments. But I don’t have access to any of that right now.”

His thoughtful eyes flicker with recognition for the first time since my memories returned.

“So,” Jaffen says, “your job comes first?”

“Yes, it does.”

He seems — impressed? Sad, but impressed.

“Well, I understand wanting to do a good job,” he says. “But, Kathryn, will you promise me something?” I don’t answer because I don’t make a promise I can’t keep, but I stay focused on him, so he continues. “When you get home, will you find someone who makes you happy, will you give yourself that?”

I don’t tell him we could get home any day, decades from now, or never.

I don’t tell him how I tried, and failed, to get home to Mark in time.

I don’t tell him how hard I am fighting to keep control right now of the cry that wants to erupt from deep inside my core, the cry I’m not sure I could stop if I ever let it start.

Instead, I simply, honestly, if a bit stiffly, say, “Yes.”

Jaffen moves to hug me but I stand at attention and order the computer to resume the turbolift.

We walk in silence to the transporter room. He steps up to a pad and I look at him one last time.

I realize I’ve been selfish.

“Jaffen,” I say, “I want you to be happy, too. I’m ...” I struggle for the right word. My mind still isn’t working quite right. I want to convey sadness and disappointment and pain and yearning for what could have been. “I’m ...”

“Grieving?” he suggests.

“Yes,” I say. “I am. I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too. I’m glad I got to know you.”

I cannot reply and keep the composure I need to make it through the rest of today. I tap and slide my fingers on the console. Jaffen becomes energy. I rematerialize him in the kitchen area of his apartment. He loves to cook, and he must be hungry for breakfast.

I hurry out of the transporter room and through the corridor, but I get turned around in the turbolift and step out onto my ship’s command center like a newborn deer on unsteady legs.

“Captain on the bridge,” Harry announces after my hesitant entry. This is the sort of shit that keeps him from getting promoted.

I find my chair and ease into it. It feels the same, I suppose. My headache lessens infinitesimally.

“Ready to go?” Chakotay asks.

He surely has received word from the Doctor that I had an additional treatment, so I take Chakotay’s question at face value. Still, I can’t help but stare at the viewscreen. Quarra. I wanted to go there for a better life, for work. No, I didn’t. That was a fiction implanted into my brain. Oh God, I need to chat with the EMH — for my sake and to give him ideas on what to look for in the rest of the crew.

“It may not have been real, Chakotay, but it felt like home,” I admit. “If you hadn't come after me, I never would have known that I had another life.”

He’s perceptive sometimes.

“Are you sorry I showed up?” he asks.

“Not for a second,” I reply, thinking I’ll be sorry for a long, long time. But, captains don’t get the luxury of being sorry. “Resume course, Mr. Paris,” I order and, as I allow myself one last wistful look at Quarra, we fly away.


End file.
